Fifteen Seconds
by Rubeus
Summary: When the heart stops and the body dies, the brain apparently has fifteen seconds of dream time. This dream can last another entire lifetime or less than a second; it's just the way dreams work. Life is, after all, nothing but a dream. (Some SF included)


_+Yeah, I'm back with fanfiction. I decided I didn't like doing it, but this time it was boredom that drove me to do it. And, with a series I decided that I thought was too good to be tampered with. But things like Slayers? Not that good, and fun to tamper with. Besides that, I really don't even like anime. I just like the ones I've written fanfiction on. I hate most of it, really. With an undying, bloody passion. _

_Anyway, I'm sure it's been done a million times before, but lets just pretend that maybe… just maybe… Spike doesn't die in the very end of the series, okay? Let's see what happens. I wrote this when I was just done being rather baked, and it was totally unplanned, and I am rather proud of the result. Perhaps I should write high more often, huh? Anyway, onto the story. _

_Oh yeah. Characters not mine, no credit taken. Just wasting time at… Oh my! It's three in the morning! How about that, folks+_

"So the tiger-striped cat didn't die after all." The somber, resonating voice echoed throughout the small metal room. He opened his eyes to try and see where he was, but the room only spun and buckled in his vision and made him nauseous, so he closed his eyes again to make it go away.

"We really thought you were a goner this time," the voice said again, and he felt a cold liquid being rubbed onto his stomach. "And I'll be honest, I'm still not sure you are going to make it…" the voice spoke with some sort of reluctance at the words. The cat tried to open his mouth to speak, but what came out instead was a raspy whisper of words that he didn't even understand. With a hand that felt heaver than lead, he reached up and rubbed at something on his forehead. There was gauze there, and pain shot through his temples when his hands ran over what was apparently another wound. The attentive hands continued working at his stomach, and when he felt them stop rubbing whatever that goo was, he felt a large and stiff cast like bandage being put back into place and tightened appropriately so that the wound in his stomach couldn't be easily opened again with simple movement.

"And from the looks of it… you still don't even look in any condition to be conscious. Try and get some sleep, Spike." The voice sighed. He heard footsteps of heavy boots clanking off and out of the room. He remained quiet and still, unable to sleep. All he saw was the metal ceiling of a small room, and couldn't remember where exactly he was. The curve of the yellow thing he was laying on was just out of the corner of his eye, and he recalled that to be a couch. He remembered this tacky yellow couch, for some reason. But where did he remember it from? Memories came in fragments, their stitching loose and carelessly done so that when he reached to pick them up, the quilt that they should have made fell apart into fragments in his hands, the designs and patterns on each piece different and clashing with the other.

He sighed heavily with a raspy breath, and closed his eyes again. The voice was right; he probably needed more sleep. But was that a head injury he felt? If he had a concussion, the little bit of basic first aid he knew told him that you should never sleep if you feel sleepy with a concussion. But was he even sleepy, for that matter? He couldn't tell. Probably best to stay awake. Some reading material would be great right about now, but he had the feeling that he probably wouldn't be able to sit up in a comfortable position or even have the strength to hold up a book for too long.

Well, you never know until you try, right?

He decided to start slow, just by sitting up to see if he could manage that. Everything was so stiff and uncooperative in his body, but maybe he could rearrange himself. Then he'd call out to that voice and ask for a book, and perhaps a glass of water…

Shakily, he used his elbows to pull himself up partially onto the armrest of the chair. As he tried to sit up all the way, the memories suddenly pulled themselves back together and sent through him a pain that was greater than the one on his gut or head. He collapsed backwards in defeat, his head resting halfway on the arm rest. He let out a sharp gasp at all the realizations of what had happened. Had it really all happened? Well, the wounds were proof enough that it had. But it all seemed so surreal. Like in a dream…

But wasn't life just a dream? Isn't that what Julia had said?

He closed his eyes before the tears came, and he didn't let them out. No use in crying over what happened, was there? He closed them just in time for Faye to appear over him, her expression somber and rather paled. When he was sure that the tears went off on their own way, he opened them again and saw her there. He didn't feel the usual annoyance he felt in her presence. He didn't feel anything about her. She was there, and that was that. Nothing to get upset over.

She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again, as if rethinking her words. What did she want? He wanted to tell her to just spit it out, but the sob locked up in his throat didn't allow that to happen. He simply lay still, with watery eyes staring up at her, waiting for her to deliver her message.

"Do you need anything?" she finally stuttered out, and looked as if she regretted saying it. And then he realized, maybe he was going to die, if Faye of all people were being civil… helpful to him. Even the last couple of times he had been seriously injured he had regarded with a mild sort of neglect. But he wasn't necessarily going to die those last few times, and she probably knew it.

"Water," he replied in a raspy whisper. Just that was exhausting. She raised her eyebrows a little and nodded, heading off in a seemingly arbitrary direction, out of his reverse eagle eye's view of the Bebop's "social" room. She reappeared moments later with a glass in her hand and set it on the table next to the couch. She stood again for a moment, her mouth gaping again as if to speak, but she shut it again and wandered off, her heels clicking against the metal floor as she disappeared into the depths of the Bebop.

So she wasn't to the point of actually helping, but even getting a glass was a step in the right direction, at least for her. Ignoring the crippling physical and emotional pain, he reached up behind him, and blindly felt around for the glass. Finally coming into contact with the cool surface, he picked it up and brought it close to his lips. It was just close enough so that he could feel the coolness of the glass and the liquid inside, and tipped it a little, resting the rim on his cracked and dry lips. The cool liquid flowed into his mouth, and dribbled a little down his chin and onto his chest. The coolness felt wonderful, but that was as far as he got. With a small sigh, he mindlessly set the glass down on his chest. The exhaustion was getting the best of him, and his eyelids were again heavy. Without any resistance, they closed again and that wonderful realm of sleep overtook him like it had for the past three days.

But ah, didn't it feel wonderful? He wasn't conscious to feel any of his pain at all, and only lay in a welcoming darkness that was the realm of his dreamless nod.

The heat was what woke him again. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his whole body was slicked with a delicate layer of moistness. The lights were out and it was dark, the only noise being the humming of the mechanics that surrounded him. He shifted a little, the couch's material squeaking uneasily beneath his wet skin. He felt like he needed a shower, desperately… but could he bathe with that wound in his stomach? He reached down and blindly felt around for the stiff bandage, but felt none there. What greeted him was a row of plastic fibers sticking like rose thorns, tiny and pricking to the touch. He sat up a little and looked down. He was stitched up rather nicely, but the wound still looked like hell. Puckered and red around the stitches, he could see the soft glimmer of that goo that Jet had put onto him, and realized it was probably some sort of antibacterial cream.

He was surprised that he hadn't lost his innards from that last strike from Vicious, but then it seemed he had been teetering on the last legs of his ninth life, and Lady Luck had decided to extend that last life for just a little while. Well, curse luck.

Shakily, he pulled himself to his feet, and stood next to the couch for a moment, gathering his bearings. He felt like he had just recovered from some vicious illness, like a violent form of the flu. Everything was stiff in that same manner, and his head pounded relentlessly at the sudden shock of standing upright instead of lying prostrate, which he had been doing for probably quite some time now. He noticed someone had had the good grace to move his glass of water from his chest to the table again. He picked it up, and drank it down in one gulp, not caring about the stale taste or the dirt that had probably come and floated down onto its surface. He was too thirsty and too numb to care. He knew he needed a shower, to hell with it if his wound didn't agree with that. Everything else told him that he needed it, so he complied.

With small and uneasy steps, he made his way down to the shower stall, grabbing a used towel from a small closet close by. He knew it was Faye's hair towel, and she would probably have a fit if she knew he was using it, but to hell with that, too. It was large enough just for drying off, and that was fine for him. He set it off to the side when he closed the door to the shower room behind him, and stripped the one article he had been wearing, which was no more than a pair of black sweats. He felt a sudden shiver of revulsion, when he wondered who had undressed him to put those on him, but didn't think any further of it. The shower was calling to him. He checked his head to see if that bandage was there, but it was gone, too. He could have sworn he had had more wounds, but maybe they had been smaller, and had healed in all the time he had been asleep.

He reached in and turned on the water (and also prayed it wasn't broken), and held his hand under the stream, waiting until the temperature was just right. When it was finally warm enough and stepped in under the welcome torrent of warm water. It made the wound on his stomach tingle a little, but he ignored that. It felt too good to care about that. He fell heavily against the cool tile wall, and slid down to sit, enjoying the warmth carrying itself around his tired and aching body. Gods, what he wouldn't give for a bath! He needed to be clean, though, and a bath was no good for that. It was just soaking in your own filth; it was… he couldn't believe that small children bathed that way. It was disgusting! But then, that was part of the reason why he hated children.

He tilted his head back a little, letting the stream pound against his neck and go down his chest. The water suddenly felt cold and he felt a heavy weight in his arms. A person. Julia lay dead again in his arms, heavy in her lifelessness. Golden blonde hair cascaded over his arms and her shoulders. They were both wet from the rain, but he knew only he felt that much…

And then he closed his eyes. It was all in the past. No need to think about it. But the memory still remained, fresh and new like a wound, the pain still reverberating through his tired limbs. Unwelcome and unwanted, a sharp gasp of a sob finally game, and he let it out instead of holding it in his throat. Who was awake to hear? He sat silent under the water, tears cascading from his eyes and down to his chin, mixing with the water of the shower.

There was a small, timid knock at the door. He didn't reply, but cracked the shower door a little to simply look at where the knock had come from as he locked up the sob in his throat feeling a bit silly for have being heard. Had he really heard the knock, or was he losing his mind? Even in his grief, he still felt nothing was wrong, and this much worried him. He knew he should be racked with it. He had been more upset when Julia hadn't come the first time, and now she was gone. Where was the pain that he knew should be there? Would it come later? Or was he just simply losing his mind, and unable to keep him emotions in check?

When he was convinced the knock had been imagined, he heard someone call out his name.

"Spike?" effeminate, whiny, timid. Faye. The timid bit didn't match her profile, but it seemed fitting to her somehow.

He didn't answer for a moment, but then realized this might worry her and she might come storming in, and rip open the shower door to make sure he hadn't collapsed and died while bathing. He didn't need that.

"Yes, Faye." He said coldly. His voice sounded healthier to him than he felt.

"Oh, you're awake," she said more to herself than Spike. "You've been asleep for nearly a week, you know? I'm glad you are bathing. You probably stink."

Ah, Faye. Could you be any less blunt?

"Well, if you need anything, just give a shout." She continued. There was a momentary pause as if she was searching for the right words, and then she spoke again. "You know I'm only being helpful because you nearly died, right?"

"Yeah, sure Faye. I know." He said sarcastically. "But you know… I could use some soap and shampoo. There doesn't seem to be any in here. Think you could get that for me?" He continued as he looked around and realized he had forgotten to grab any of that. Jet had decided awhile ago that he didn't like keeping things in the shower… made it cluttered. And it was Jet's ship, so of course they had to comply. But then things like this happened.

"Uh, sure." She said. He heard her foot steps, although they were muffled from the shower water and the door. A few seconds later, he heard the door open and a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo were flying over the shower door. The bar of soap hit him in the head and bounced off next to him, landing right next to the shampoo. He cursed Faye, but picked up the shampoo, and smiled down at it.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but have we met? You seem awfully familiar." He joked with himself, and then flipped the cap open and poured a dollop of the stuff into his hands, his momentary bit of grief forgotten with the numbness to take its place.

"I really thought you were going to die," she went on, sitting across from him with her feet up on the table. The lights were still out, but a fan somewhere had been turned on to help with the humidity. Maybe the cooling systems had broken, or they were close to some warm planet, or they were simply off. He didn't really care. But it was hot, dammit.

"It was the way you were acting. I just… didn't think you would be coming back. Jet found you by luck. He knew you were going to kill Vicious, but he didn't know where you were going to do it, and took a lucky guess. He probably called around, asking if there was any syndicate commotion going on, or something."

Spike sat across from her, wrapped in her robe. It smelled of girly things… girly soap, girly perfume, and girly bath powder. He didn't think he would mind smelling like a girl, though. Just for now, it was fine. The robe was a little short for comfort, but that was okay, too. He simply stared at her coldly, and took a drag of his cigarette that he had bummed off of her. He didn't know how to reply to any of it. He wanted to tell her what had happened, but what was the point? For one, this was Faye. Would she even care anymore if the topic of conversation strayed from how _she _was worried and how _she _had just been so lost and upset…? Probably.

"I never thought I would worry about you. I didn't think there was any sort of bond, you know?"

"There never was." He replied quietly, exhaling the smoke and flicking the ash into the small tray on the table.

"Well, in any case," she continued, a bit agitated, "I just thought I would let you know that I was worried. I didn't want to lose one of the only people left in my life, no matter how weak any 'bonds' were. This is the only place I have to return to, and to lose that… well, I don't know what I would do." She sighed and leaned back a little, taking a drag of her own cigarette.

"I'm sorry," he replied simply. Jesus, it really was all about her, wasn't it? Well, that was just Faye's nature. He was used to it, but still a bit annoyed. She did seem more humble since she regained her memory, but not by too much. She was still the one and only Poker Alice.

Faye gave the man across from her a thoughtless glance. She had realized she really had missed him, and that she truly had worried about him. He was the last real person, other than Jet left in her life that really mattered. Whitney was no longer of any significance to her at all. The scum could rot in hell!

He looked pathetic, sitting across from her in her robe with his hair damp about his shoulders and his face drawn and paled. The cigarette that rested in his bony fingers looked almost as if it were too heavy for him to hold, but effortlessly he lifted it up to his still chapped lips and took another drag of it, exhaling and savoring the taste.

He was the only man in her life. She knew that now, and whether or not she cared to admit it, she was attracted to him. Was it just because she had nearly lost him, or was it because he was truly the only man in her life that held and small measure of her interest at all? Perhaps. But the experience had shaken her, and she realized she didn't want to lose him…

And Spike sat across from her, staring. His agitation was growing a little more, bit by bit. Her gaudy and easy appearance was harmful to his vision… maybe some guys found her type sexy, but he didn't really think that girls who looked like they'd drop their pants for anyone were sexy at all. He wanted her to leave. He wanted her leave now, to let him go back to sleep, because that's all he wanted to do at the moment. He didn't want to talk to her. Maybe he thought he wanted the company at first, but now it was unwelcome and annoying.

His cigarette finally came down to an unsmokable butt, and he extinguished it in the ash tray. With nothing to concentrate on like smoking, he just sat with his elbows on his knees, his head downcast slightly.

Maybe the relationship would work out. Would it be okay to get attached to someone who had nearly died so many times? Random thoughts like this ran through Faye's mind, and she kept pushing them out. She hated him! Why was she thinking like this? Who cared if he was the last really significant guy in her life? There would be others. She was only technically 23, after all.

But then the thought occurred to her, that maybe _he _needed someone right now. Maybe since he had lost everyone who mattered at all left in his life, he would need someone's company. This was just Faye's justification for her thoughts, but then maybe she was right. Was it worth it to try anything?

With her cigarette now down to a butt, she blotted out the ember and flicked it into the ash tray. A little clumsily she stood and walked over to Spike, sitting down next to him. Spike disregarded her presence, ignoring it completely. He kept his head downcast and his expression blank, trying to hide his growing agitation. He thought he must look pitifully depressed, but the truth was that he was just feeling nothing. Nothing but the immediate and meaningless emotions he held towards his comrades. Nothing too deep or important… nothing like his hate for Vicious or his love for Julia or the sorrow of losing her. His agitation towards Faye was nothing right now, in comparison to the emotions that were more fresh still in his memory than his wounds.

"Spike, you're listening, right? I was so worried." She said sort of uneasily. "I… didn't want to lose you. You… are really the only person left in my life who means anything."

_Hah. Moving in on me right after I lost my girl? How like you, Faye. Sorry, but I can't return the feelings. _This is what he wanted to say. He wanted to say it, and stand up, making his point official, and go off to his room to let her digest that. But he didn't. The overwhelming feeling of apathetic nothingness was taking him over completely. So are you moving in on me? Big deal… I don't give a damn. Do your worst.

He felt her hand on his. It was warm to him, but he realized his hands were cold. The touch was unwelcome, but not fought against. She gripped it for a moment, squeezing it softly in her small palm. He could tell that she was worried about his lack of reply. Usually, some sort of rude retort would have followed her confession, but not today. He simply didn't have the energy for it.

With her advances not exactly fought against, Faye thought it was safe to take it a little further, all the while her conscious was telling her that this wasn't right, and that she didn't really feel anything meaningful for him at all… that it was just sympathy. But her hand loosened its grip on his regardless, and found its way up to his lips. Her thumb ran over the cracked skin there, which was still slightly moist from the shower and not fully dried out again. Without really thinking about it, she leaned it and kissed him. He didn't return it, but again he didn't resist it.

He concentrated on the little things. The feeling of the terrycloth robe against his freshly cleaned skin, and the slightly sweaty feeling on the backs of his legs from the leather material of the couch, and the empty glass sitting off to his left. Otherwise, he knew he'd lose it and probably smack her square in the jaw. Good god, this bitch deserved it. Had she no shame? …Well, of course she didn't. He knew that. He waited until she was done and stood up, grabbing the glass from the table and headed off slowly to the kitchen. He heard her get up to follow, but hoped she was sheepishly retreating to her bed. He turned the appropriate knobs, waited for the water to cool enough to be easily chuggable, and filled the glass to the brim. He brought it to his lips and drank it down quickly, washing that feeling out of his mouth.

He felt hands on his shoulders, slipping under the robe, with fingers playing on his skin like a piano. He stood still, waiting for her to finish. The touch felt good, but it was definitely still unwelcome. She massaged him a little, stroked him a little, and finally slipped the robe off past his shoulders just enough so that it was handing leaving his stomach just barely visible, but it still remained to cover what needed to be covered. He set the glass down and turned to leave, but there she was to block his path. She placed her hands on his cheeks and pulled him closer down to her and kissed him again.

He stood again for a moment, and without thinking, returned it. He closed his eyes, and told himself it was Julia. He placed his hands on her shoulders, and pulled her closer. She was shorter than he had realized, but still tall for a girl. Julia had been a bit shorter, but she could be wearing heels today. She reached up and slipped off the robe a little bit more, so that the only thing holding it up was the belt tied haphazardly around his waist.

She ran her silky soft hands over his torso, teasing and tweaking it, careful to avoid that awful thing on his stomach. He returned the attentions, bringing his hand around to caress her and hold her close to him by the small of her back with his fingers spread out like a fan, all the while cursing himself and her. Despite this, his hand ventured further… down a little more, just so that his fingers were just under the line of her most likely obscene panties.

She took him by the hand and very romantically led him to her room. She didn't comment on the fact that his eyes seemed to be permanently shut. She instead led him carefully, like a reluctant Shepard leading the lamb to the slaughter. They fell on the bed gently, and the gentle stroking and biting and teasing led to more secretive parts of their bodies. Her silken soft hands worked wonders, but did nothing like Julia could have ever done. He figured her skill was derived from experience, where Julia's had been from pure passion and love. But he kept his comments at bay, biting his lip softly and feeling the dry skin there peel off a little as the heat between them increased.

After everything had been teased and nipped enough to make things really intense, an odd ballet commenced. The dancers were costumed in their skin and sweat and sometimes covered by the bed sheets, and sometimes not. Hips slid effortlessly against one another, and hands carried their bodies into the climax of the story, the final delicate arcing finale of the dance, and returned them safely to the slippery floor of the stage, where they took their deep bows and retreated off behind the curtains of bed sheets.

It was over before it had begun, it seemed, and Spike slumped down next to her, worn and exhausted, his eyes still closed and sweat covering the both of them. He worried that the wound in his stomach might have opened up again a little, and he mindlessly reached down and felt around for anything wet like blood. Satisfied that all was well, he pulled his arm up again and rested it under his head.

He still kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to open them, and admit that he had done this thing. He wanted to tell himself that he and his lover were alive and well, escaped safely from Mars, the Syndicate, and Vicious, and that they were enjoying each other's company in a very intimate way in the joys of their freedom. He wanted so badly to believe this. So shut his eyes did remain, and with his shut eyes, sleep came at him again, bombarding from all sides like a surprise attack. Funny that it would come so easily, when he had been doing nothing but sleeping for the past several days.

He planted a long sinewy arm across her torso, and pulled her a little closer to him, still pretending that it was Julia who lay next to him. She didn't really respond; perhaps she had already dozed off. She was a little too skinny and a little too tall, and a little too full of her own self righteousness, but for now that was all obsolete. He knew he would wake up tomorrow and slink off to his own bed like a dog who knew that it had done something wrong, and admit in his silent and tearless grief that it was just the way things were now.

_But God, just for tonight, let me be happy. Let me be happy for a little while longer. _

Just before he dozed off, he told himself that it was all just a dream.

In one of their off-topic, philosophical discussions, Jet had once told him that the brain usually had fifteen seconds of dream time just after the body shut down. That fifteen seconds could last a lifetime, an hour… however long you wanted, really. That was the way dreams worked. He wondered briefly if he really had died back there in the disheveled top floor of the Red Dragon Syndicate's building, and that the last few hours had actually been only seconds.

He took some small measure of comfort in this, and as the warriors of sleep finally had him completely surrounded, their pointy spears and black shields jutting out to him, he surrendered. The last few fragments of consciousness fluttered away on the ebony wings of crows, leaving him to his peaceful, dreamless slumber.


End file.
